The Madness Of Brian Irons

THE MADNESS OF BRIAN IRONS================================================

Author: Original draft by Daggerino of ff.net, updates and betas by Imago.
Summary: Canon, in-game (RE2), Irons' POV.
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Implied Irons/Beverley
Feedback: desired.
Betas: Daggerino, Imago (2004).
Disclaimer: All Capcom game characters property of Capcom. Other references to S.D. Perry. No profit is/was being made from this story, which is intended for fan use only.

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Part One - Voices

"What's happening?" Beverley screamed, tears of frustration rising hot and stinging as she twisted vainly at the door-handle. Someone was yelling; calling out on the other side. She heard a man's voice close by, and the sound of heavy footfalls, fast and fleeting, before a single shot rang out - loud, but dull in the close corridor beyond. Then a piercing howl, followed by deep, ragged, agonised screams. A man's screams.

"Oh God, what are you doing!"

Beverley's tears ran free again, and just an hour before she'd been sure there was nothing more left to cry. Her first fears had been confirmed hours ago, after Uncle Brian had locked her in his study. Locked her in, mind - without a word or an explanation for it, and not long after, the madness had begun. Everything had seemed possible back then, within the bounds of rational explanatio and and Uncle Brian had told her everything was going to be fine. It was only hooligans, or a riot or something. He had smiled at her, kissed her hand and told her to wait there - because he'd be back soon.

Everything was going to be fine, he'd said.

That was nigh on five hours ago. When he didn't come back, she'd waited patiently for a while, on the desk, letting her legs swing gently as she gazed at Uncle Brian's collection. It wasn't as grand as her Daddy's collection, that much was for sure. Uncle Brian's room was so dim and cramped - but he did have a lot of animals. They stared vacantly down at her from their perches on the walls with their hard, marble eyes, some so old and faded they looked almost antique. There were so many of them. Deer-heads and moose-heads, dik-dik and stuffed birds with their dusty mottled wings outstretched, as if in flight. She remembered the stuffed snow-white owl he'd given her just a few weeks before, a birthday gift for her eighteenth; Daddy hadn't been too impressed to see it at the dinner table. But then, Uncle Brian was different from a lot of people Beverley knew.

For one thing, he was very protective. She guessed that's why her father had told him to look after her, and to keep her safe while the riots were going on. And he would, she was sure of that. Uncle Brian was always looking out for her, always making sure she was happy, that he she knew she was pretty, always sending her beautiful things as presents. So why hadn't he come back yet...?

Beverley sank to the floor, still clutching the doorknob with one limp hand, her porcelain-fine face a tear-streaked mask of anxious despair. How long would she have to wait before someone came? How long would she have to stay here, waiting for Uncle Brian to come back? Looking down, she saw that her dress - the beautiful white one her father had gotten her especially for the re-election dinner party - was damp now with her crying.

The screams had begun not long after there'd been a lot of noise downstairs, smashing and crashing and what sounded like shooting. Uncle Brian's room had no windows, and so Beverley had had no choice but to put an ear to the door and an eye to the keyhole. Not that there was much to see - or hear, until the noise grew louder as the fighting crept its way nearer, and up the stairs, until she'd heard voices in the office down the hall. She'd called out and screamed, of course, and tried her best against the locked door of the study - to no avail. Uncle Brian still hadn't come back, the voices faded away, and the screaming man fell silent.

After all the noise and the fear, and the thought of the rioters bursting in on her, the deathly silence that followed began to fill her mind with a cold and prickly dread. What would she do if no-one came? She couldn't stay there forever -

But he'd promised you'd be safe here...

Maybe he was just busy - busy doing important kinds of things; making sure all the rioters were caught, that no-one was injured... he was the Chief of Police, after all. A riot was a big deal in a small-time city like Raccoon, especially if it was as serious as everyone seemed to think. Uncle Brian had been so calm, so controlled, if not a little angry when he'd been called away... almost as if he'd expected the whole thing to happen, and that he knew who was to blame. But what were all those people rioting about, anyway? Raccoon had always been such a boring, peaceful mid-west town...

Other thoughts began to seep slowly into her subconscious, thoughts so unpleasant she didn't quite want to put words to them. What if the rioters had won? What if they'd taken over the station, and all the officers had been captured and tied up? No-one would think to come and check on her...

But the shooting - what if Uncle Brian was -

And where was Daddy...?

Beverley sobbed gently as she thought of her father, and of the frantic, wide-eyed face he'd worn when he took her to the Station almost twenty-four hours ago. He'd looked so afraid, which had frightened her, because her father had never seemed afraid of anything before - not even the crank calls and weirdos he sometimes had to deal with as Raccoon's Mayor. He'd always been a rather sedate and frivolous man, much like Uncle Brian in his love of antiques and curiosities, but lacking the bizarre nervous energy that her Uncle seemed to ooze. He was also a very pre-occupied man, and had never shown Beverley much attention. Other than doting frequently upon her with dresses and gifts, her father and she had never been overly close. She would feign good behaviour for the sake of his reputation, but would often get abominably drunk at her friend's parties, and one time she even went skinny-dipping with one of his election rivals' sons, in his father's pool. Mayor Harris paid so little attention to young Beverley that even when he heard the rumours, he only laughed and claimed that his daughter was a model of decency, as were all the Harrises. That wasn't true of course; Beverley had seen her father with his rival's wife several times that spring, and had giggled at his painstaking efforts to keep his little hobby secret; learning quickly that he would buy her anything to keep her out of the house for a while and occupied. A new coat, a third car, a weekend shopping-trip to Paris - anything. Beverley of course, like a good Harris, capitalised as much as she could.

On that thought she began to feel worse, and even a little sick. She hadn't eaten for hours, and was thirsty, tired and upset. Daddy would be glad to see her back this time, wouldn't he? Soon she would be able to go home, to her own room, take off the dress and have a goddamn BATH. And her HAIR - the sight of it dangling untidily in tangled ropes before her eyes was enough to set off the tears again.

After five hours alone, Beverley Harris wiped her eyes angrily and looked about her stuffy prison once more, watched by the dead eyes of Uncle Brian's beloved collection. They were mocking her now, lifeless heads and bodies though they were; the birds with open screaming beaks and accusing stares, and the heads on the walls with desperate glares and gaping, twisted smiles...

"Stop it, stop looking at me!" she screamed, burying her face in her hands to hide their faces as she subsided into fits of sobs.

No-one was coming.

*********************************************************************

Uncle Brian was otherwise engaged. With Beverley safely locked away in the study, he could at least afford to hear out some of the other officers' pleas. She could wait a little longer now, couldn't she? - sweet, young, stunning Beverley...

"Chief? Chief! Are you listening?" Marvin yelled, jolting Irons from his daydreams of the Mayor's radiant daughter. A spasm of irritable distraction crossed the Chief's face, especially when she melted away to reveal a rabble of bloodied and wounded police officers, their weary faces lined with blood and grime - and desperation. They looked at him expectantly, some cradling weapons, others bruised and tattered arms as they crowded for the moment, safe in the planning room, some around the tables by the vendor, one cop dead on the floor. They'd managed to carry him with them after the last firefight, while he'd still been breathing and clutching his stomach after a zombie lurched in by the windows. He hadn't lasted long. Ed and a handful of others, sweating and in a state close to panic, were crowded around the chalkboard; exactly where they'd been eight hours previous. The plan hadn't worked, and they were back to square one, maimed, bleeding, and more than twenty officers down.

"It's true isn't it, Chief?" Elliot Edward blurted angrily, brandishing a handful of photographs fervently, just a few inches from Irons' nose. "You're taking payoffs from them - from Umbrella, aren't you? Just like Chris said - it's their goddamn fault!"

Good-looking for his age, “Ed” had always been considered one of Raccoon's finest cops - smart, experienced, hardworking... and a crack-shot on the firing range. Probably why he's still alive, Irons thought with momentary anger, especially so when his outburst invited looks of grim approval from the other officers, including Branagh. Marvin Branagh was another troublemaker, Irons noted with distaste, and probably the ringleader of the little survival outfit they had going here. Why couldn't they just leave him to take care of Beverley? Why did they have to discover this NOW?

"Look," Branagh said, jabbing agitatedly at one of the pictures in Ed's hands. "That's the kid they brought in here two weeks ago for stealing a car. I recognise him." The photograph showed a teenage boy, strapped upright to some kind of operating table. His eyes were red, the face contorted in pain, a thin tracery of bright veins standing out across the skin.

"And this concerns me how?" Irons snapped coldly, straightening up.

"That's a human experiment, Chief!" Branagh yelled, grabbing the picture and thrusting it towards the chief's oily, moustachioed face. "Creating zombies! That's where those unholy sons-of-bitches come from, isn't it? Umbrella research... the murders at the old Spencer place... it all makes sense now, doesn't it?"

"Congratulations Officer Branagh, you've cracked the case," Irons sneered back acidly. "...And just what the hell do you want me to do about it right now?"

"All this... so many dead... and David, too. This is all your fault, Chief! You sold out, you no-good son of a-"

Irons' smug, rounded face was suddenly confronted with the business end of Marvin's gun. Branagh was almost shaking with rage, the sweat breaking out afresh on his already bandaged brow. The Chief had to admit that, for once, there was no talking his way out of this one. He'd been famed for his cunning 'politician's tongue' at one time; it had partly got him the job at the RPD anyhow, and Mayor Harris had managed to pull a few strings for him - the Mayor himself had been turned by the Chief's own eloquence and wit. Confronted with Marvin's sudden and audacious fury (and admittedly, Branagh and he had never been friends) Irons could only manage a pallid, bewildered half-grin.

"It wasn't me," he stammered falteringly, "William Birkin is the one to blame -"

- And he'd left his own gun in the room with Beverley, in the desk-drawer... Good God - Beverley! It'd been hours since he'd locked her in there... what if she -

"What about the kid, Irons?" Ed snarled, ignoring Marvin and grabbing the Chief by his already crumpled shirt-collar. "Did you turn him over to Umbrella too? Huh?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Irons yelled back, face flushing red. He disliked Ed even more than Branagh.

"Leave him," Ed spat, letting go roughly. "We don't have time for this. We should be killing those things, not our own. What matters now is staying alive. Marvin? Marvin!"

Grudgingly, Marvin slowly lowered the gun. "You're right; we shouldn't waste bullets," Marvin muttered darkly, but giving the Chief a look of undisguised hatred. "Ed, you keep the pictures, and get the ones from the dark room. Let's get our gear down to the sewers now, the barricade won't last much longer."

"How will we make it?" demanded one of the injured cops weakly. "The ammo's almost out, and we can't find a damn thing in this place."

"John managed to contact us a chopper," Ed answered. "Our chances would be better by air than in the sewers. God only knows what freaks are crawling down there..."

"What about John?" one of the other cops piped up, indicating the corpse close by, its face covered unceremoniously with a strip of bloodied uniform shirt. "How long before he -"

"Save your ammo," Ed answered, painfully. "Let's go."

It was clear they didn't intend on inviting Irons to join their attempt. Not that it mattered, the Police Chief mused sardonically. Uncle Brian had other things to attend to, didn't he? Yes, more important things...

As the officers turned to leave, some of them shambling out with bound legs and injured feet, Ed shot Irons a last, disappointed look, as the Chief stood, his upturned face clouding suddenly with some new and delicious notion. Their eyes met - for a moment - and the look on the Chief's face cinched it for him; Irons was gone - delirious - or insane. Those beady pig-eyes freaked him out at the best of times, but the look of them in that moment - a keen, almost hungry look - well, it freaked the hell out of Ed, even as he snapped up his gun and prepared to face the barricade outside.

With the room empty - save for the corpse of John Garrison - Irons sighed a heavy breath of relief, soon overtaken by a sharp cackle. "You can try, Ed," he murmured gleefully to himself, "as hard as you can; but you won't get out."

None of them would. No - he'd made up his mind now - there would be no survivors, no pictures, and no consequences. Umbrella had ruined everything - all of his hard work, hard-earned connections, and for what! It was all over - everything he'd ever dreamed of - his Chief's position, his plan on running for Mayor next year, his beloved collection... even his 'friendship' with Beverley. Beautiful Beverley...

All of his suffering for nothing!

Birkin - if I had you here, I'd wring your neck...

But Birkin had probably gotten out by now, hadn't he? Irons fumed. He'd probably made his cowardly escape to watch my beautiful town turn to dust while he and that bitching wife of his and their miserable little girl -

And suddenly he remembered Sherry - the Birkin's twelve-year-old daughter - who he'd seen not so long back close to his office. Was that before Beverley had come, or not? He couldn't recall. No matter - a child wouldn't last long in this place... and that would be one less thing for him to worry about.

"To work! There isn't much time before they escape!" a chiding voice in his head cried suddenly. "They've all made you suffer so much; now's the time to deal it back on them!"

"Yes, to deal it back on them," Irons repeated to himself, slowly, almost trance-like. The Voice was right. They deserved to die, all of them. Except - "But what about Beverley?"

"She can wait, she can wait," the Voice replied soothingly, "she isn't going anywhere. But the others - we can't let them get away."

"No, we can't," he repeated. "I'll kill them all, one by one. If I'm not going to get out of this alive, why should they?"

"All of them?"

"Like deer in the woods," he cackled. "Busy little deer."

"Then get your gun, and quickly!"

"Yes, my gun... and then I'll check on Beverley. Yes, that's what we'll do. We'll make it safe... so she doesn't get hurt..."

Irons jumped up and shambled away on his bad hip, clipping the shoe of the dead man close by. "No-one's leaving my town," he panted, over and over, almost delirious in his new-found purpose. And then he remembered John Garrison. He'd rather liked him; an obedient man with a wife and kid, and never asked questions. His eyes fell on the body, lifeless for the moment, a huge, cloying bloodstain on the ragged shirt close to the liver. In the claustrophobic confusion following the last battle, the officers had plainly forgotten that John Garrison still wore his weapon.

*********************************************************************

Beverley Harris thought she was losing her mind. She could hear a voice, someone calling close by. "The chopper's not here yet. Ed, come in. Do you copy? Come in, Ed..."

"Help!" She cried frantically, as loud as she could, slapping the door and shaking the handle. "Let me out! I'm in here!"

Footsteps in the hall. Someone yanked the door handle from the other side, and the sound made her jump.

"Jesus! The Chief's office... someone in there? Hello?"

"I said get me out!" she screamed. "Do you know how long I've been waiting?"

"Calm down," came the muffled voice from the other side, but from the tone of it - Beverley sensed it was a male cop's - nervous and strained, but otherwise alert. "I've got a key, hang on."

"Hurry," she yelled, almost giddy with relief. Someone had finally come, and from the sound of it the rioters had been put in their place. She didn't care if Uncle Brian came back, now - as long as somebody let her out. She could go home, at last...

"Shit," the voice spat from outside. "Goddamned Chief with his special keys..."

"What's the matter?" she demanded, her clear singing voice cracked and sore after so much crying.

"The master key won't open it. Stand back, I'm going to shoot the lock!"

"In here?" she gasped, backing off, "but what about Uncle's -"

With a loud 'ping' the lock was shot through, and a young African-American cop charged in. He was tall and medium-built, and there were flecks of blood and ash on his uniform. He looked around wildly, but he didn't have to look far - Beverley stood there in her flowing white frock a moment, before picking up her heels and running for the door.

"Wait!" the cop said, gripping her arm, a little hard. "It's dangerous out there -"

"Let go! I'm going home," she sobbed adamantly, trying to wrest herself free. "I'm not staying here any more, you hear?"

"I hear," he answered sharply. "You must be the Mayor's daughter. Look, I don't have time to explain, but you'll have to come with me." The radio on the cop's shoulder crackled; another voice come in over heavy static.

"Marvin, that damn chopper turned up yet?"

"Negative," the cop answered. "But something else has. Meet you in the lobby in five. Over and out."

Without another word or explanation, the cop brushed past her and pulled her out into the corridor with him, Beverley staggering after him with weak legs, too bewildered and relieved to argue.